Back from the Canary Islands, Spain!

And we're back in Israel (!). Back from Lanzarote and Tenerife—islands that rose from the sea millions of years ago via volcanic eruption...incredible, right?

There is so much to tell about these bodies of land floating way out there off the coast of Morocco, and I've included a couple paragraphs of tasty observations to chew on below. But mostly, I want to tell you about the volcanos and the energy in Famara on Lanzarote. About the winding roads that seem to have no end. About the lengthy old man and his farm full of white horses and goats and the cutest ugly piglets you've ever seen. His cat named Victor. About the star gazing there and how the clouds graze the mountaintops. About the magic of surfing, and the little silences that take place when you learn to separate your mind from your body. When you learn to release.

About learning that the wave, in fact, took 40 hours to reach you. Every time. About learning to offer it respect. Letting its force take you, for just a moment...

Tenerife has its magic too. In its microclimates and El Teide—its single volcano that stands behind in the distance of every view you turn towards, like a watch tower. There's magic in its black as black beach sand—in El Bollullo and in the mountain city in the north that looks like an Austrian dream, La Orotava. There's magic when you get to the tippy-top of its mountaintops. When you step out of your car to dance in the clouds, because you're in them.

And most importantly, there's magic in the people you make friends with along the way. The best magic of all. It was a great trip! And now we're back to the Middle Eastern spice, which, I like to argue, is the best spice of them all. :)

Sand snakes in the wind. The smell of wet earth, just like Arizona in the rain. Savta Etti's perfume, worn by the Italian waitress who said Te Amo. The sound of the ocean, like in a seashell; a seashell in the ocean. Harmonica music. Waves upon waves upon waves, tumbling to the shore. Black clouds like the volcanic earth. White and yellow flowers peer out of black rock, sprouting out against the wind. Stories of Atlantis. Volcano wine. La Famara. Cliffs like God. Ants on my shoulder in the morning when waking. Agua sin gaz, por favor—and green Spanish olives. A wet, black and white kitten in from the rain. Her legs dance as she walks. A storm, and the clouds nestle the mountains. Finally, a sense of the earth. An earth with many faces and textures, but it's one. Cacti like Phoenix. Cacti like flowers. We're in the middle of the world, honey. Free. Land for miles. With music with music! Arizona with a seashore. Arizona with waves. To wake up and contemplate the sea. Waves with white hair. Cloud reflections, sundown with pink fire. Our little pilot fire. In the bungalow. Little birds with a hummingbird nose, the head of a dinosaur and the body of a sparrow. Zebra colored feathers. A necklace of letters and seashells on the lamppost. Amber and green pearls. Black heart bugs, everywhere. They smush into dust. Little full moons on every corner of the village. A million stars with a million moons. We speak French and Spanish and Hebrew here, there's some Portuguese too. Ripples in the water, something's beneath the shore. The surf. Work with the body, calm the mind. The view upside down with legs wide open. Stretch. Blue bottle, blue sky. Harmony with the ocean. It's all in the hips. Chest forward. Touch the water, touch your dream. And now I can say that I know what it feels like to pee In a wetsuit. Warms you up.

The realization that we are a dot in space. Space around us. An ache in my neck from staring so hard. Enraptured. In New York you forget to look up. And even if you do, you cannot see passed rooftops. The stars sparkle like birthday candles. Millions of them. The Brazilian surfer and his chia seed smoothie. He told us about the harmony. Spring and neap tides. Crescent moons. A yoga teacher educates her son. He's four and learning to cross the street alone. The volcanic energy. Our little black Fiat. White and green houses instead. Gotas para los ojos. Wind from the sun, hot and cold hot and cold. Air makes waves. Sand beds. Wetsuits hanging to dry on white walls. Smell of the AC and gasoline. If the mountain climber doesn't go to the mountain, the mountain must come to the mountain climber. The pineal gland. Trusting feeling, quieting your mind, trusting your body. Surf and skate. Mermaids. The elements, the energy. Recovering perfectionists. Wisdom of the body. Sun-dried figs. My see-thru shirt. No bra, new friends, oh well. Understanding, finally, "a room with a view". Papaya avocado leeks clementines banana lemon and lime salt and pepper and olive oil for breakfast. If it's too difficult, you're doing something wrong. Look up! Create from the source. Vast space on a small island. The skies are closer, like in Israel. La Gomar. Maeva and Ricardo, five breads. Orange butter. Views like Arizona, again. Floating stairs. Cactus graveyard. Little cross on top of a mountain. Escaping time. Shadows of the clouds passing over black soil. Green moss growing over burnt land. Trees growing sideways. The Earth able to grow the way it wants. Burnt and shifted and crumbled. Untouched. Hoy. Fire mountains, Timanfaya. Strums of Mediterranean violin. One or two soft piano keys, strum on the guitar, single strings vibrating waves, devil drums and opera, music of the gods. Hermaneo the Hermit, his camel and the fig tree. 50 years and never bore fruit. Volcano chicken. The prayer for one common language. Body language and beaded doors. The hungry goats and a little chick that lives in and our of their legs. A baby pig and white horses. Ash growing like moss, moss growing like ash. The archipelago from under the sea. Pranna. Wisdom of the body. Yoga and surf. Collections of life. Laundry dancing in the valley. Landry dancing in the wind. Wild flowers and succulents growing left, out of the mountain rock and green moss. מפל של עננים. Succulents grow like vines.